I walked slowly, stopping at every
street-corner that I might lose no detail of the picture; and rarely has
any promenade amused me so well.
Houses, whose gables are denticulated or else curved in volutes, throw
out successive overhanging stories, each composed of a row of windows,
or, more properly, of one window divided into sections by carved
uprights. Beneath each house are excavated cellars, subterranean
recesses, which the steps leading to the front door bestride like a
drawbridge. Wood, brick, stone and slate, mingled in a way to content
the eye of a colorist, cover what little space the windows leave on the
outside of the house. All this is surmounted by a roof of red or violet
tiles, or tarred plank, interrupted by openings to give light to the
attics, and having an abrupt pitch. These steep roofs look well against
the background of a northern sky; the rains run off them in torrents,
the snow slips from them; they suit the climate, and do not require to
be swept in winter. Some houses have doors ornamented with rustic
columns, scroll-work, recessed pediments, chubby-cheeked caryatides,
little angels and loves, stout rosettes and enormous shells, all glued
over with whitewash renewed doubtless every year.
The tobacco sellers in Hamburg can not be counted.
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